


The Rosary

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angel Castiel, Angels, Bathing/Washing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Castiel, Illustrated, M/M, Past Abuse, Running Away, Snow, Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge 2015, Victorian Fiction, Wing Grooming, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 08:59:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5779696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Estate, a home allegedly functioning as a house for stray Angels, is anything but safe. After escaping from the grounds in the middle of the night, Castiel happens upon a stranger. An attempt to sell his only possession to buy both his and Hannah's freedom leads him directly into the arms of his savior in the dark of the forest. A man named Dean, owner of the Winchester Estate.</p><p>And he's the most brilliant man Castiel has ever known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rosary

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Supernatural Reverse Bang 2015, featuring Diminuel's artwork!

Castiel shoved the rosary into his satchel before he could stop himself.

In his ears, he could still hear the clinking of the beads in his fist, the way they rattled in the confines of his bag, now hanging around his waist, the yellow a stark contrast to the cobalt of his habit, the color faded with age and wear. It would be safe there, he thought to himself, idly patting the bag on his hip, listening to the beads and precious stones that adorned such a trivial piece of string. Safe until he got to London, until he could sell them for whatever the first merchant could offer him. Anything to escape _here_.

The Estate had been his home for as long as he could remember, a purported refuge for Angels with nowhere else to go. And really, he _didn't_ have another place to venture—the countryside had never been kind to him or his brothers and sisters, the constant threat of animals or _humans_ always lurking around every tree, beyond the marshlands into the sea. They could never survive there, not without some kind of shelter or self sustainability.

But now, it was a risk he was willing to take. Ten years of watching his siblings flinch every time Zachariah entered the room, ten years of feeling the brunt of his wrath and having his feathers plucked out at will. Another minute, and he felt he would surely die if he stayed. Hannah would understand—if he got the chance, he would come back for her, steal her and the rest of them away from Zachariah’s treatment and bring them a better life in London, or whatever town they came upon along the way.

He could almost taste it, his freedom at his fingertips, beyond the front door of the Estate. Zachariah would be returning the following morning, from a venture in the city that would supposedly bring more wealth into his possession, along with another servant to add to his clientele. To his name, Zachariah had ten Angels working the grounds of his home and tending to his every whim—he didn't need any more. He didn't need _any_.

“Are you sure I can’t travel with you?” Hannah asked him, his coif and veil draped over her arms, blue bright against the pale white of her garments. Her tawny wings slunk low at her back, barely moving. Of course she wanted to go—she always had. She wasn't meant to live the life of a servant, to dutifully bow and follow orders from her master just because of what she was. What they _both_ were. “We would be more efficient together, I think.”

“We can’t,” Castiel said, solemn, and took his veil from her, setting it on the chest of drawers. Behind him, she helped fasten his coif, the black fabric cool against his overheated skin. “He would notice if you were gone. You don’t deserve to be hurt because of my departure.” _Because of me_.

She wiped the sweat from his brow before finishing the garment’s arrangement, wrapped tight around his forehead and neck, obscuring the dark mass of hair on his head. “I’ll make sure the others aren’t aware,” she conceded, defeat in her tone. “I just—I wish we had been born separate of one another.” He watched her with mournful eyes as she took his veil, working it over his head and the black of his habit and draping the innermost fabric between his wings, white feathers sagging while she tied the slits together. “Then we wouldn't have to bear the pain of parting once again.”

“I’ll come back for you.” With the last of his clothing secured, Castiel turned to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, gripping her tight, careful not to wrinkle her veil. “I’ll find the money, and I’ll buy your freedom. You shouldn't have to live like this, with him.”

“And you shouldn't either.” Leaning up, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Be safe, Castiel.”

She disappeared beyond their master’s bedroom door, careful to close it behind her without a sound. Castiel swallowed, absently pressing his fingers into the satchel again, the sound of the beads comforting, quelling the fear roiling his gut. He had to leave—for his own safety, he _had_ to. Break free of his bonds and escape into the forest, hopefully never to be seen or heard from until his return. If he died, then it was the price he paid for his foolishness. However turbulent the Estate was, he had a life there. He was _safe_ within those stone walls, away from other humans and the creatures that loomed beyond the trees and in the marshes. He could live out the rest of his days there, with his sisters and brothers. Or, at least until Zachariah dropped dead, whichever came first.

Still, that wasn't enough to stop him from gathering up the few spare coins on the dresser and throwing them into the same bag. Food, bartering money—he took whatever he could get, no matter how small the worth. The other Angels were finishing work in the fields that evening, the night lingering beyond the horizon, past the fog and the cloud cover that never truly faded, casting the grounds into an ever present shade of gray. Under his laced boots, the floorboards creaked, loud in the silence of his home. Hannah was gone, from what he could tell; probably keeping everyone else away long enough for him to leave.

Now was his chance. His only means of escape was within his grasp, beyond the winding halls draped in the finest rugs and paintings and through the front door, into the brisk winter night.

And he ran—as fast as his legs could carry him, through the snow and past the stone gate, past the dirt road that lead further into the country, into the endless abyss of the forest. He kept his pace, stomping through leaf litter and downed branches, through the rocky creek that left the sole of his shoes muddy. Here, the snow was thicker, untouched by humans or Angels; occasionally, he spotted the tracks of a deer or a lone fox, all heading further into the dark, away from civilization. London was miles from where he treaded, quite more than few days’ walk if he kept his pace. Even less if he was able to pay his way onto a carriage. Around him, the night fell deeper the further he walked, his only company the soft crunch of the snow beneath his feet and the occasional breeze rustling through the treetops.

He stopped beneath a pine an hour or two after he began and sat huddling close to himself for warmth. Time was lost to him now, the dark night lingering around every corner, broken streams of pale moonlight rarely breaking through the leaves and onto the snow. His halo only helped so much, golden light showering down upon his head and maybe a foot in front of him; enough to keep his footing, but not to protect himself from a potential attacker. Slowly, he willed himself to _breathe_ , exhaling hot breaths into the frigid air, now nipping at his bare skin, nose and cheeks reddening from exposure. If necessary, he could always climb to a higher branch and rest there for the night; if only his wings would cooperate, the limbs shivering, feathers almost vibrating with cold.

But he had to keep moving—somewhere, something was watching him, _waiting_ for him to let his guard down. That something came in the form of a flickering flame, barely visible in the distance. Castiel narrowed his eyes to the sudden light, panic rushing through him—Zachariah had found him. Zachariah always knew where he was, even when he wasn't there. His heart raced the closer it ventured, the light distinguishing itself further. His attempt to back away was halted by the tree behind him, and futilely he gripped the trunk for support, chest heaving with each breath. _He’s going to kill me. He’s going to take me home and kill me in front of Hannah._

“Who’s there?” Castiel heard a voice call out, rough with worry and fatigue; Castiel swallowed, unwilling to answer. The flame flickered closer, now only a few feet away, emanating from a staff; in its light, he could make out the figure of a man, garbed in a bright green overcoat and a black tunic, brown pants covering his boots, scuffed and dirtied from the snow. The same precipitation dotted his hair, auburn and bright, the green of his eyes startling. Over his shoulders, he bore a cream-and-red cloak, adorned with brass on his shoulders. Certainly heavy, no doubt—and certainly _royalty_ , or at least close to it.

His breaths failed to even out the closer the stranger ventured, caution now weighing down his steps. Behind Castiel, his wings twitched and flared, a failing attempt at intimidation; the man wasn't scared of him. If anything, he looked _ecstatic_ , eyes wide with awe, lips parted in a word he couldn't say. Castiel said it for him. “Stay back,” he stammered, his boot knocking against the pine. The man laughed, amused about _something_. “I said—.”

“I won’t hurt you.” The stranger lowered his staff and extended a hand, palm up, inviting. Castiel watched him with skepticism, but ultimately leaned up and off the tree, keeping his hands at his sides. “You’re an Angel, right?”

With hesitance, Castiel nodded. The wings were enough of a giveaway—the halo, even more so. “My name is Castiel,” he said, quiet, almost melodic. Around them, fresh snow began to fall, a few flakes decorating his wings. “If you’re here to kill me, you’ll—.”

The stranger shook his head, a chuckle rattling free. “I’m not here to kill you, Castiel,” he said, sure of himself. “You’re just—the first Angel I’ve seen in a long, long while.” A pause. “Why are you here? Where’s your master?”

He sighed—of _course_ the stranger would ask that. Out of everything in the world, Castiel’s employment was always the first question on everyone’s minds, no matter what setting he was in. In the city, in carriages—even at the parish church or along the countryside not a few hundred yards from the Estate, his worth always came into question, a constant reminder of just who he was. How far his kind had come since their arrival, what they were destined to be for the foreseeable future. The thought turned his stomach; he had sincerely hoped this man would have been different.

“I have no master,” Castiel said, fighting the quiver in his voice. Not anymore—no longer would he serve under _that_ man, not as long as he lived.

The stranger took it as answer enough, though his face remained skeptical, his brow quirked at an angle. “You clothing says otherwise,” he commented, motioning to Castiel’s habit with his staff, the flame flickering with the movement. “Surely a masterless Angel couldn't afford such luxury.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Lowering his head, Castiel pushed off the pine and adjusted the sleeves covering his arms, pulling them tight. “I mean to make my way to London. If you’re not planning to help me—.”

“I’m not to travel to London for another few days,” the stranger commented. He stepped directly in Castiel’s path, much to Castiel’s distaste. “I can’t let you stay out here all night, though.”

“And why not?”

The stranger pointed to the sky, the white above the treetops endless, a rolling blanket. “The snow isn’t planning to stop any time soon. I can’t—I _won’t_ let you stay out here, not while it’s this cold.” A sigh. “I’ve seen too many runaway Angel’s perish because of their own stupidity. I won’t let you become another corpse.”

Castiel cocked his head to the side with a huff, lips pursed in thought. “But—Why me?” he questioned. “And how do you—.”

“Angels use these woods to escape,” the stranger stated, simple. “Is it… Do people really treat you so unkindly, that you’re forced to flee?”

 _You should see my back_. “You’re only human. You can’t fathom what we endure daily.”

“I’d like to know.” The stranger extended his hand again; Castiel took it with hesitance, secretly reveling in the warmth of his palm, the sureness of his touch. “My name is Dean. I own the Winchester Manor, and I intend to take you home with me.”

 _The Winchesters_. Castiel fought the urge to run in the other direction, steeling his feet into the snow. Rumors still swirled about the Winchester family long after the heads of their estate had perished, a fire claiming half of their manor and leaving only a boy and his younger brother behind. The home had been reconstructed shortly after their death, but the stories of ghosts lingering in the windows and specters in the marshlands still prevailed. Perhaps Dean had seen them too, knew their existence all too well.

“You intend to save me,” Castiel reiterated, tone cold. “What you’re saving me from, you have no idea.”

“I’d like to know.” Dean closed his fingers around Castiel’s hand, squeezing tight. “Come, please? I’d… like to keep you out of the storm, even if it’s only for one night.”

Castiel watched him with wary eyes, still attempting to judge his motives. Could he really be that sincere? Could he really be that well-intentioned towards a complete stranger, especially an Angel? “You don’t know what you’re delving into,” he said again, giving Dean an out.

He didn’t take it. “Please, Castiel.”

With a reluctant nod, Castiel let himself be led along through the forest, Dean’s hand still clutching his own, warm in the chill of the night.

 

-+-

He hadn’t seen the Winchester Manor outside of the daylight in years, not since he attended Zachariah in procuring another Angel half a decade earlier. Then, it had been covered in vines along the ridge of the marsh, scorch patterns permanently scoring some of the stone walls; a long line of trees adorned the path to the estate, beyond the elaborate fence that blocked the public from seeing its grandeur past the metal gate. It looked quaint, not much unlike his previous home. Candles burned in the windows at all hours, illuminating the darkness of the rooms, of the façade that had long since looked abandoned.

In the night, those same candles cast an eerie glow on the entire home, lone beacons amongst the falling snow and the endless dark. Part of Castiel wanted to run, to flee back into the woods and take his chances with whatever or whoever he came across. But something about it felt safe— _Dean_ felt safe, despite the harshness in his eyes and the despair that bled into the very air around him. “You’ll be safe here,” Dean said upon entering the home, releasing Castiel’s hand and allowing him to walk of his own volition. “I’ll show you to your room, if you’d like?”

He couldn't answer—not immediately, anyway, too enrapt in the size of the foyer and the room beyond it. Along the wall, a fire burnt bright on the hearth, its light illuminating the scant furniture Dean owned and the rug on the stone floor, probably older than the home was itself. Tapestries and hunted animal pelts adorned the walls, along with two stags perched above the mantle, their antlers stretching high. Beyond one of the doors was a kitchen, he was sure. A stairwell sat on the opposite wall, leading to the bedrooms.

“You have a lovely home,” Castiel commented as he followed Dean up the staircase, his boots clicking on wooden steps. Ahead of him, Dean nodded, his hands clasped behind his back. “Have you always lived here?”

An unremarkable question, but Dean answered it nonetheless, mirthful as he spoke. “All my life. My parents left it to me. My brother lives here too, in the summer. Otherwise, it’s just me.”

“You must be lonely.” He itched to pull back the words; Dean laughed at them regardless, hollow in his chest.

“It’s not that bad,” Dean added. They stopped before a door marked with the letter _S_ , emblazoned in gold. “I’m not suited to live in the city. My brother is a scholar, whereas I…” He shrugged, eyes downcast. “I’d rather spend my time here.”

Castiel wrung his hands at his front. He longed to reach out and rest his hand over the broad sweep of Dean’s shoulders, to comfort the part of him that ached, sadness radiating off of him. He stopped himself before he could—he barely _knew_ Dean, beyond his home and the fact that he was willing to save a poor soul lost in the woods, hoping never to be found. “I appreciate this,” Castiel said instead, feeling his wings sag behind him; Dean’s eyes followed their movement, his hand twitching at his side. “You didn’t have to take me in.”

“I wanted to.” Dean gave him a solemn smile and reached up to touch his shoulder, thinking better of it at the last second. “Let me know if you need anything?”

Castiel nodded his assent and watched Dean leave, disappearing into a room two doors down. Around him, Castiel listened to the faint flicker of candles in the window down the hall, snow falling heavier now, at an angle. Dean had been right—he _wouldn't_ have survived if he had continued to run. Hannah would have heard of his death, surely. An Angel found in the woods, stripped of his halo and feathers and whatever he had in his possession. The rosary, the coins—he would be ostracized after death, branded a thief in the afterlife. He didn't want that. Didn’t _deserve_ it.

Behind the door of his temporary residence, Castiel made himself comfortable on the poster bed, unlacing his boots before falling back onto the mattress. Easily, it was the most comfortable thing he had ever laid upon, infinitely better than what Zachariah had given him. _It must be his brother’s bed_ , he considered, eyes locked on the taper candle in the window. He should remove his habit, he knew; the sheets below him were ware far more comfortable than his own clothing, but the ache in his bones left him weak, more than willing to lay there and nod off than to struggle out of his garments, only to have to put them on again in the morning.

 _This is better_ , he told himself, eyes drooping shut. _This is better than death._

He awoke the following morning to a thick layer of snow on the windowsill and Dean loitering outside of his door, peering through the crack. Instinctively, Castiel’s wings flared at the intrusion, attempting to shield himself from his visitor; he failed spectacularly, Dean only laughing at his plight. “You won’t scare me that easily,” Dean chuckled, finally pushing the door open and letting himself inside.

Castiel sat up and pulled his legs closer, wings still vibrating with the need to intimidate, to loom over the human; they gave up after a short while, Dean seating himself on the end of the bed in the meantime. “I wasn’t intending to,” Castiel lied; Dean saw right through it. “I—apologize, for my current state,” he continued, gesturing to the wrinkles in his habit and the water stains along the hem. “I fell asleep before I could change.”

Dean waved it off with a grin, showing teeth. “You’re fine,” he commented, humorous. Castiel felt his cheeks flush against his will and willed himself to behave, to calm the rhythm of his heart. “May I?”

Castiel blinked, opening his mouth to ask just what he meant; Dean furthered his question by motioning to his veil, letting his fingers run along the silk fabric, cold in the absence of the morning sun. “You may,” he answered, and lowered his head for Dean to slip off the garment, setting it beside their knees, almost touching on the bedspread.

He moved next to his coif, careful fingers unwrapping the black fabric and letting it slip off to the side; Castiel’s heart raced a quick beat when those calloused fingers caressed the side of his bare neck, over the raised red skin he could no longer hide. A burn, severe enough to let others know of his transgressions, of his disobedience. “Who did this to you?” Dean asked, voice shaking the longer he touched it, felt every indentation from his shoulder to behind his ear. Inadvertently, Castiel felt himself leaning into it, eyes fluttering closed. “Who hurt you?”

“…My master,” Castiel whispered. Dean’s fingers went rigid, his features tightening when Castiel looked at him, lips pinched. “Zachariah Anders. He’s why I ran.”

 

“He—.” Dean held his neck with a surprising gentleness, eyes closed and head bowed. Castiel watched him all the while, covering Dean’s hand with his own, attempting to quell the anger that resided in his touch. “He’s not allowed to touch you. _No one_ —There are laws. Laws that protect you, that are supposed to keep you _safe_. And he—.”

“Dean.” With a finger, Castiel tipped Dean’s chin up, enough to catch his attention. Anger bled into Dean’s eyes, green overcome by rage; Castiel knew that look all too well. But Dean’s gaze didn’t hold the malice behind it that Zachariah’s did, the look of a madman all too willing to lay his switch into his bare skin. “He didn’t kill me. That is what should matter here.”

“It—It doesn't, Castiel.” Dean stroked over the scar once more before pulling his hand away, a fire in his eyes; Castiel’s heart caught in his chest. “No one should be allowed to hurt you.” In a suppressed rage, he pushed off the bed and treaded towards the door, stopping before he pulled it closed. “Not anymore.”

-+-

Snow continued to fall that afternoon, white flakes piling up on the dead trees in the yard and the shrubbery a good few inches, deep enough to gather it into a ball between his gloved hands and hurl into the side of the Manor. Dean outfitted him with a black coat to wear while he traveled the grounds, woolen and incredibly warm over his habit. From what he could feel, the temperature had dropped significantly in the last few hours, his teeth chattering while he trudged through the snow, his hands shoved into the coat’s pockets. A few loose coins rested at the bottom, probably forgotten in the months since Dean last wore it; Dean wouldn't miss them if he put them into his satchel later.

The bag had been left in his bedroom along with his personal rosary, both items shoved to the back of a drawer, hopefully out of sight and mind to his host. Whether Dean cared or not about what Castiel owned, Castiel didn't know. But they were safer there, where no one could find him wandering the fields and the marsh behind a stranger’s home, purely out of curiosity.

Dean had a lovely estate, he discovered—acres of pristine land with a view of the Thames only a few hundred yards away, all of it blanketed in a thick layer of white. Though if the snow hadn’t fallen, he would have suspected the ground to be overgrown with weeds; vines grew over the exterior of the brick-laid home, creeping over the roof and gathering at an unused chimney, its twin pouring smoke into the air. Only a few windows along the back were functional, the others covered by ivy and dirt. And probably soot, if he looked hard enough; scorch marks stained the delicate façade on every side, scars never to be washed away, even by the worst rain. In the daylight, it was less menacing, almost charming in feel. Like it wasn't inhabited by the ghosts of those lost and the man determined to keep his home standing.

A lone tree stood near the edge of the marsh, the willow bare and coated in snow, occasionally blowing with the breeze; Castiel stopped beneath it and knelt in a thinner patch of white, a collection of worn headstones sitting beneath its branches. Something about it felt _calm_ , solemn as he rested there, tracing his fingers over the etched letters of _Mary Winchester_ , born 1841, died 1870. Dean must have only been a child when she passed, maybe four or five at the most. Next to her was the body of _John Winchester_ , and another ten, all bearing the names of—.

“Angels.” Castiel almost jumped at the noise, instead falling over and sprawling out atop Mary’s grave. Dean stood before him, wearing a large brown coat and boots that laced up to his knees; white dusted his hair at the tips, loose strands falling into his eyes. “My—My parents, they owned Angels.” He rubbed the back of his neck with a gloved hand, averting his eyes. Castiel pushed down the welling anger that bubbled up, willing himself to sit still and listen. “Not really owned, but… They took in the ones that wouldn't have made it otherwise. The ones whose owners turned them away when they went lame, or the ones that were wandering without a home. They would’ve _died_ if it weren’t for them.” A sigh. “Probably doesn't paint me in the best light.”

“It certainly doesn't,” Castiel huffed, struggling to keep his tone neutral. He pushed himself up to his feet and brushed the snow off the back of his habit, hoping the water would dry soon. Names like Zaphkiel and Anael floated in his mind, Angels he never knew but existed before he was born, their presences looming in the marshes, in the rooms he didn't dare to venture into. “Did they—How did they die?”

“The fire,” Dean supplied, eyes to his toes. “My nurse… Amabael, she carried my brother and I out of the house. She ran back inside for the others, but…” He paused, swallowed. “By then, the floor had collapsed in the back bedroom. My parents…”

Castiel didn't stop himself from reaching out, gracing his hand over Dean’s shoulder before squeezing there, just enough to be felt over his coat. Dean let out a warm breath, a dying laugh, and shook his head, clasping his mitten over Castiel’s. “It’s been twenty-four years,” Dean continued. “You would think I’d be used to it.”

“The pain never truly fades,” Castiel said, masking the ache in his words with a smile, however small it was. “We all have our burdens. Some more… physical than others.” At his back, he felt his wings give a feeble twitch, barely enough to be noticeable against the white of their surroundings.

Dean noticed the movement all the same; reaching out, he brushed the snow off of the arch of his wing, revealing the damp feathers beneath, dirtied with years’ worth of dust. He hadn’t noticed it in recent years, choosing to ignore it rather than have to tend to his own wings; he still couldn't look at them in the mirror without cringing. “When was the last time someone groomed you?” Dean asked, still cautiously stroking over his wing.

Castiel watched him with confusion, wings shying away at his curiosity, trembling from the cold and nerves. “I’ve—I wasn’t aware it was a custom,” he admitted, sheepish; Dean raised his brow at the statement. “No one has ever touched my wings. Not even my siblings, not even… myself.”

Dean cast him a glance in sympathy and lowered his hand. Snow gathered around their feet, Dean shuffling tracks where he stood, out of some boyish anxiety that left Castiel feeling both charmed and ashamed to have caused. “I could help you, if you wished,” he asked, purely curious. Castiel let out a breath in thought. “Before—Before the fire, I would play with Amabael’s wings, and she taught me how to groom them. You deserve it, after what you’ve been through.”

He did, really—but he never expected someone of Dean’s status to be the one to _offer_. Such an act was never discussed amongst his family, only amongst the Angels before his time, when their wings were functional and they weren’t reduced to shells of what they used to be. Magnificent, respected, _noble_ creatures capable of flight and miracles the world could never understand. Now, he was a simple servant—the only acceptable form of employment for an Angel, for the being he had descended to. A human with wings.

Slowly, he nodded, head lowered enough to shield him from the look on Dean’s face. Pitiable, probably; he didn't need his sympathy. “I’ll run you a bath,” Dean said close to his ear, briefly touching Castiel’s wrist in a manner that left his eyes welling, just enough to sting. Such a man couldn't be so gentle, especially to someone like him. “You’re probably freezing.”

Another nod; Dean left him in the yard with a parting smile, disappearing beyond the back door and leaving him to his travels in the snow, thicker now than before. More would be falling soon, if the clouds were any indication. They wouldn't be leaving for London for a while.

-+-

The bathroom was one of the more immaculate rooms in the manor, Castiel considered. Decorated in white porcelain with a toilet and a wash basin on the wall, it featured a cast iron tub and a partition, along with a table where he set his clothing, all folded neatly into separate piles. They would need to be washed soon, he figured; the hem of his habit was sodden with snow and debris from the previous night’s travels, and his veil would need to be air dried, preferably by the fire.

Dean had left a few minutes prior, long enough for the tub to fill with warm water and for Castiel to shrug off his clothing, leaving him bare and vulnerable in the somewhat-cramped space. Zachariah’s Estate had never been as elegantly furnished as Dean’s manor, leaving him to wonder just how much money his family had left him upon their death, and where exactly he worked in London during the summers. More money went into the purchase of this room than Castiel had ever had the chance to see in one place. Or, had been _allowed_ to see, rather; no one needed their Angels stealing while they weren’t looking.

Hopefully, Zachariah hadn’t noticed the missing rosary.

The knock to the bathroom door left his wings vainly attempting to cover his modesty; he used his hands instead, earning a chuckle from Dean as he entered the room, a small basket in his hands. He wore a set of pajamas now, pale green and white with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbow. “I’m here for your wings, sir,” Dean said with a curtsy, enamored by his own humor. Castiel just rolled his eyes, a smile betraying his lips. “You’ve never seen anything like this, have you?”

His heart ached from the somberness in Dean’s voice, a question they both knew the answer to. Most of his washing was done from a tin basin in his bedroom, or what pitiful excuse of a bedroom there _was_ for him. No privacy, with eyes always watching from _somewhere_. Here, he didn't feel as exposed, didn't feel like his life was in danger if he took one step out of line. “This is all so… new,” Castiel remarked. He watched Dean cross the room and set the basket down, shutting off the faucet after, the room bathed once again in silence. “You shouldn’t be so kind to me. I’m not… I’m not like you, Dean.”

“You seem enough like me,” Dean answered with humor. “Our only difference is that you have wings.”

He walked to stand in front of Castiel, letting his fingers trace the burn over his neck, the rest of it visible in the candlelight and the last vestiges of light through the window; scarred tissue stretched down his shoulder and onto his back, spanning down the left side of his body and onto the bone of one wing, pristine white mutilated into a patch of dark brown. Feathers that would never grow back, a patch that would never heal—not emotionally, anyway. Dean’s jaw clenched the longer he ran his fingertips over the wounds, the longer Castiel _let_ him. Dean harbored no malice in his touch, no resentment for what he was, unlike so many others. The ones who thought him weak, the ones who hated him for what he was, for what humans once aspired to be.

“Does it hurt?” Dean asked after a while, his voice soft, distant.

Castiel shook his head and reached up to cup Dean’s wandering hand, taking it between his own. “Not anymore,” he said, solemn. Another question reflected in Dean’s eyes, something that would never make it to his lips. “I tried to run, before,” Castiel answered, unable to meet Dean’s eye. “When I was a fledgling. I didn’t understand why I was being kept there, why my father abandoned me, why my mother never returned. Zachariah caught me in the marsh and…” He swallowed, fighting the tremor in his voice. The memory was still too fresh, even twenty years after the fact. “He clipped my wings after he disfigured me. I couldn’t even fly before, but… I don’t understand why it was necessary. Why we have to suffer such cruelty because of what we are.”

His wings slumped behind him, phantom flight feathers aching to stretch into the air; they expanded to their full breadth in example, both only a few feet long at either side, half the length they could have been. In another time, he would have filled the room with feathers, multiple wings and a halo that would have shown brighter than anything imaginable. Now, it could barely light the space around him. “I’m pathetic, I know,” he muttered.

“You’re anything but.” Unbidden, Dean cupped his cheek, calloused fingers stroking into his hairline. Castiel flushed with the attention; no one had touched him like that before other than his sister, and only after he had been punished for some wrongdoing of his own fault, or someone else’s. “You’re beautiful. And no one deserves to put their hands on you. I won’t let them.”

Castiel’s shoulders slumped with the words, his head bowed; Dean continued to stroke his cheek, moving again to his scars, fingers lingering over the ridges and curves, over each and every indent. “You’re too kind,” Castiel sighed. “…But you don’t know me. You’re trusting me because you found me at my lowest, and now—.”

“I’m trusting you because I _want_ to.” Finally stilling his hand, Dean tipped up Castiel’s chin, meeting his eye. Castiel shivered under the attention, itching both to leave the room and to fall into his touch; he flushed further at the look in Dean’s eyes, the way his gaze darted to his lips every so often, how they seemed to sway closer to one another until Dean cleared his throat, suddenly aware of himself. “You should—The water’s getting cold.”

 _Right_. That was the entire reason he was standing there nude in front of a virtual stranger. A stranger that had offered up his home and time to him, shared his history when he didn't have to. He could have left Castiel to wander the forest on his lonesome, but Dean invited him in—Dean let him _stay_. And now he was offering up his bath, the water warm against his chilled skin when he dipped inside, letting it wash over him. Somewhere behind him, Dean was laughing, amused about _something_. That something was apparently his wings, the appendages flailing wildly at his back at the first touch of liquid until they settled and relaxed.

“I’ve never had them cleaned,” Castiel confided amidst the silence. For a while, he watched his knees beneath the water’s surface while Dean washed him clean, too enraptured by Dean’s hands raking through his hair to say much of anything. No one had ever touched him like that before, like he was something to be treasured, something worth cherishing; his eyes stung at the thought, at the pure notion that Dean actually _liked_ him and wanted him around.

Those same wet hands traveled to his wings, carding through the individual feathers and pulling free loose quills, a small pile gathering on the floor at Dean’s knee. Castiel took one that floated into his bath, stroking his fingers over the barbs and pushing them in the opposite direction. Dean hummed at his back, now petting the arch of his wing. “They’re beautiful,” he chimed; Castiel caught his grin over his shoulder and flushed, turning back to his knees. 

 

At least, until Dean touched an empty section of his left wing, the appendage jerking violently until he let go. “That’s—I’m sorry,” Castiel managed, head bowed. “That’s—.”

“You still feel them, don’t you?” Castiel nodded in answer. In an attempt at comfort, Dean smoothed his hand down the arch again, soothing the jitters that ran through each feather. “I can’t imagine what that feels like, to lose…” Dean stopped himself, hand falling lax. “What would they have looked like, if they weren’t clipped?”

Castiel looked up at the wall, catching the glow of his halo in a nearby mirror. “…Bigger, mostly,” he mused, somber. “Maybe a few feet longer, but not enough to fly.” He sighed with Dean’s continued attentions, now concentrating on his right wing, careful to avoid his missing primaries. “I wonder what it’s like, to fly.”

“You’ve never had those dreams?” Dean pet through the feathers closest to his back, earning a shiver as they attempted to stretch out, now draped over either edge of the tub. “Where you’re floating above the marsh, or London?” Dean laughed under his breath; Castiel warmed at the sound. “Sometimes I see myself above the Thames.”

Castiel failed to hide his smile, reflecting in the water around him. “I don’t… dream, not really,” he admitted. “Though, sometimes I see myself as a cat. Life seems so much simpler that way, I think.”

Behind him, he could feel Dean’s mirth through his touch alone. “You would make a fine Persian,” Dean commented, cheerful. “You certainly have the eyes for one.”

“…Thank you.” His wings offered an ecstatic twitch before tucking in close to his back, partially submerged in the bath. “I see myself as more of a Shorthair, though.”

Dean chuckled and stood, pushing himself up on the edge of the tub. “You would be perfect, either way.” He dried his hands with a washcloth from his basket and offered Castiel a larger one, letting it rest over the faucet and knobs. “I forgot to bring your clothes in. I’m sure you wouldn't appreciate walking around naked all day.”

Castiel made a noise of assent, his wings trying—and failing—to cover the blush in his cheeks; Dean smirked and made his exit before Castiel could reply, leaving him alone with nothing but Dean’s fading footsteps in his ears. He should have probably left the bath, he knew; still, he rested in the last remnants of warmth, letting his wings drag in the water, rippling the surface in small waves. He hadn’t felt that relaxed in years, not since that one and only instance where he snuck out of the Estate and slept in a willow; for one night, he hadn’t felt Zachariah’s looming presence, hadn’t felt like his life was in danger. Even with the cold, he remained there until Hannah came looking for him early the following morning and pulled his reluctant body from the tree. As far as he knew, Zachariah had never found out. Never would.

He let himself fall lax instead, slumping backwards until everything but his head was submerged, his head resting on the lip of the tub, eyes closed. Dean ventured in shortly after, something cautious in his step, somehow louder now, more inquisitive. Castiel opened an eye and glanced at him, spotting both a set of sleep attire and the _rosary_ in his hands, worn fingers thumbing over the beads in curiosity. His heart stuttered at the sight, eyes blinking rapidly in disbelief. He found them—Castiel hadn’t hidden them well enough. He was going to kick him out—.

“Are these yours?” Dean asked on his approach, the small decorated cross dangling from between his fingers somehow less interesting than the engraved beads.

He could have lied, could have told Dean that they were his own, that he had earned them by proving his faith. But he was anything but faithful—to the Church, to his Master, to anyone but himself. “…They’re Saint Rita of Cascia’s,” Castiel answered instead, head lowered, eyes to the floor.

“And the coins?”

A nod. This was it—Dean had found him out. Dean was going to throw him back into the cold and leave him to die. Or worse, return him to the Estate to be murdered for his escape. He wouldn't survive this time—Zachariah wouldn't allow it. Still, Dean’s tone held no malice, nothing to overtly suggest he was agitated or betrayed. Dean should have felt that way; Castiel’s intentions there weren’t pure, at least not at first. Not when he had been planning to leave that morning to make it to London, never to see Dean or his home again.

“I stole them from my Master, before I left,” he confirmed. “I wanted—Dean, you must understand. I couldn’t survive there, and the money… I was planning to sell the rosary. I want to buy my sister’s freedom. We can’t survive there. I’ll die if you send me back, I’ll—.”

“I wasn’t planning to send you back.” In defense, Dean raised his hands, nearly dropping the spare set of pajamas to the floor in his haste. “You… do know you can’t sell these, right?”

“What?” Castiel cocked his head, now leaving half over the edge of the tub, wings curled in curiosity at his back. “Zachariah purchased them years ago, though, I thought—.”

“There’s a… moral code,” Dean shrugged. Standing before Castiel, he handed over the rosary and set his clothes on the floor, kneeling beside them. “Nothing sanctified can be sold, only given freely. You didn’t know that?”

Castiel shook his head. “I was never told,” he stated, rolling over the beads in his hand. His eyes welled against his will, a lone tear spilling over without permission. How was he supposed to save her, now? Save _himself_ , for that matter? “How am I—.”

“I have a suggestion.” Dean sat and crossed his legs, hands in his lap; Castiel watched him, ignoring the shiver that ran through him at his gaze. Or the cold water lapping at his back, he didn’t know which. “I… I don’t want to sound like I’m _owning_ you, but… I was considering buying your freedom. And your sister’s, if you wanted. You could…” He stopped to rub the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish; Castiel smiled at that, just enough to be noticeable. “…You could stay here, if you wished. Or leave. You could have your freedom, away from your Master.” A sigh. “I want you to live, Castiel.”

“You can’t mean that.” Deflating, Castiel looked down at the floor over the lip of the tub, still dangling the rosary between his fingers. “You—We barely know each other, Dean. We don’t…” A pause. “You don’t have to do this for me.”

“I want to, though.” Before him, he watched Dean take his hands in his, warm despite the chill in the air. “You don’t deserve to be treated like you have been. You deserve more. And I want to be the one to help you.” Dean squeezed his hands, pleading. “Let me do that.”

Castiel considered him momentarily, exhaling through his nose as he pulled one hand free and cupped Dean’s cheek with it; Dean fell into the touch, eyes fluttering the longer he held it there, the softer he thumbed over his skin. “If you think you can buy me… If you can prove you can save both me and my sister… Then I’ll consider it. But you have to—.”

“I will.” With renewed enthusiasm, Dean nodded in his grasp, eyes alight. “If he has your registration documents, I should be able—.”

“He doesn't.” Castiel’s heart tugged at the expression that crossed Dean’s face, caught between shock and apprehension. “I told you before, Hannah and I were abandoned. He doesn’t…” He stopped, eyes widening when he looked to Dean—Zachariah didn't have his _papers_. “Does that mean—.”

Dean grinned, unable to contain his laughter. “Nobody owns you, Castiel,” he declared. “Nobody’s ever owned you.”

For the first time, Castiel bowed his head in relief, half hanging out of the tub, half in Dean’s arms as he drew him into an embrace. He muttered a heartfelt “thank you” as he let emotion flow through him, escaping into the fabric of Dean’s shirt, soaking through to his shoulder. “Thank you,” he mumbled; Dean stroked down his spine, to where his wings were slumped in exhaustion, still wet from the bath. The pain, the anguish of having to watch his life die before his eyes, the knowledge that he would never escape—all of it was meaningless. All of it was gone, no longer a living blotch on his soul. He could leave—he could have a home, away from there.

 _I’m free_ , he sobbed. _I’m free._

-+-

“I don’t have to show you _anything_ , Winchester,” Zachariah scowled two mornings later, one hand on the handle of his cane, the other fisted at his side, mottled skin turning white with force. Castiel watched from a safe distance at Dean’s back, clinging desperately to the last vestiges of his freedom. They had been there for at least ten minutes, Dean going back and forth with Zachariah on the laws presiding over the purchase of Angels and their required documentation, and how since Castiel had been dropped off at his doorstep when he was barely out of the nest, Zachariah had no ruling over him, unlike the others in his possession.

Still, that didn't stop him from threatening to take Castiel back by force. Zachariah called for Uriel to bring his pistol over his shoulder, the black-winged Angel barely fazed by the request. Castiel’s wings flared in apprehension, and hopelessly he wished he could fly, could escape the scene before Zachariah stole him away again, before he killed Dean in cold blood. Dean refused to budge, holding his ground with his staff in hand, flame extinguished in the daylight. “You’re to leave my property, Winchester,” Zachariah stated again, taking the ivory-embossed pistol from Uriel and tapping it against his hip. Dean refused to move. “Did you hear me?”

“I’m not leaving until you agree he was never yours to begin with,” Dean announced, probably louder than intended. Zachariah’s head shot up, eyes narrowing further. “You have no right to control him, Earl. Nor do you have the right to maim him because of that.”

“I have every right to do as I _please_.” With a sneer, Zachariah raised his cane with the intention to strike; Dean cut him off with his staff, effectively knocking the item out of the way and into the snow. “You— _You_ pick that up, you ungrateful—.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” A grin of Dean’s own, followed by a shove, the staff pressing into Zahcariah’s shoulder joint. “You’re to release him, and—,” Dean shoved harder, “—Hannah.”

“Neither of them are for sale—.”

“Neither of them _belong_ to you.” Both Castiel and Zachariah’s eyes went to Dean as he continued, “Castiel was abandoned along with his sister when they were fledglings. And unless you have the paperwork to prove you own them, they’re legally free.”

Zachariah huffed a laugh. “You can’t prove anything,” he chided. “You’re better off leaving them here. They’re not worth your while.”

Castiel ached to reach out and touch Dean as he continued on, to lay a hand on his shoulder and calm the nerves he must have been feeling; even from a distance, he could see how Dean’s hands shook, his body running solely on adrenaline and determination. Dean wanted Castiel there—he wanted Castiel with _him_. “I don’t care if they’re not ‘worth my while,’” Dean retorted. “They deserve better than to have to put up with _you_ , and Castiel, especially. But, if I recall, Earl, a new law has been passed in the city regarding Angels being property.” Castiel’s lips quirked ever so slightly at the sight of Dean pulling a roll of paper from an interior jacket pocket, handing the article over to Zachariah with renewed confidence.

Zachariah took it with feigned reluctance, hissing curses beneath his breath. As far as Castiel knew, it was all still there, exactly as it had been printed in the post—explicit details regarding newer property laws involving Angels, including those that had been abandoned and left to die, especially along the countryside. As of the Ordinance of 1880, all Angels without written ownership to their name were deemed free, and were to remain that way for the rest of their days. Those born at an estate were also to be registered, or significant fines could be waged against their captor. Though not outlawed, at least the courts were attempting to slow the process to a crawl, eventually hoping outlaw the practice entirely.

Zachariah sputtered, his eyes wide as he read over the document, obviously flabbergasted. “You can’t be serious,” Zachariah barked; Castiel barely stifled his laughter. “This is blatant abuse of power. You’re accusing me of—.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Earl,” Dean said with a grin. “But if you don’t comply and let these two Angels go, you’ll have the authorities on your property this afternoon. And,” he paused, smile widening, “you haven’t paid your yearly fee for Angel ownership.”

“This is an _outrage_.” Before Zachariah could rush forward, Dean pushed him back with his staff, only serving to enrage him further. Zachariah grabbed it in his fury and yanked it from Dean’s grasp, tossing it into the snow to mingle with his own. Castiel swallowed, transfixed—what was he supposed to do? “You’ve concocted _lies_ to slander me, Winchester, and I won’t stand for that!” A shove, and Dean stumbled backwards, righting himself before he fell into the snow. “You lying, insignificant—.”

“Don’t _touch_ him.”

Castiel stepped forward before he could control himself, shoving himself between Dean and Zachariah before he could strike again, this time harder, with more intent. On either side of him, his wings flared, a vain attempt to intimidate his former master, only earning a grim laugh in response. “And what will you do, Castiel?” Zachariah scoffed, lips pulled into a yellowed leer, face filled with mirth. “Surely you don’t think you can _leave_ me. You have a _life_ here. And you think this…,” he gestured to Dean, “ _pitiful_ excuse for a man can provide for you like I can?”

“You don’t _provide_ for me at all,” Castiel bit back. Reaching down, he plucked up Dean’s staff and pointed the pointed end it at Zachariah’s throat, pressed against his jugular with intent. “Let me and Hannah go. Or so help me, we’ll take you to London ourselves.”

Still, Zachariah laughed, masking his fear with humor. “Or what, you’ll kill me?” Castiel made his point by shoving the staff at his throat harder, nearly breaking skin. “Okay, _okay_ ,” Zachariah spat. “But the second he betrays _either_ of you, and he _will_ , Castiel. The second he throws you out, you’re never welcome on my doorstep again.” With a booming yell that always curdled Castiel’s blood, Zachariah called for Uriel to bring Hannah to him. She didn't have any belongings to gather, Castiel knew. None of them did.

Both Castiel and Dean watched Hannah descend the stairs with cautious steps, the Angel breaking into a sprint at the sight of her brother; Castiel caught her in his arms when she embraced him tight, muffling apologies and promises into his neck. And Castiel clung to her just as hard, his wings beating frantically at his back. If Dean were amused or heartbroken at the sight, he never made a noise. Castiel could bet he was smiling all the same. “You best watch yourself, Castiel,” Zachariah remarked with a glare. “If I see you again—.”

“You won’t touch him _ever_ again,” Dean scowled at Castiel’s back. He took up the staff from where Castiel dropped it and stamped it into the snow. “I’ll see to it personally.”

“You’d best,” Zachariah stated, and disappeared behind the Estate door, leaving them out in the cold a few dozen yards from Dean’s carriage.

“I’m sorry,” Hannah sobbed, almost incoherent. “I’m so sorry. He tried to make me tell him where you were, but I couldn't—.”

“It’s alright,” Castiel soothed her, a hand rubbing over the fabric draped between her wings. “I’m here. I’ve—We’ve come to take you home.” At that, Castiel glanced back to Dean, Dean’s hand now on his shoulder, a smile gracing his lips. “We’re staying at the Winchester Manor.”

Hannah nodded against his shoulder, sniffling; Castiel held her tighter to his chest, feeling her shiver from the cold. “Is it safe there?”

Castiel held Dean’s gaze and fought the flush that rose to his cheeks at his grin, Dean’s eyes alight amidst the snow. Brilliant, resilient—he never wanted to look at anything else again. The compassion there, the selflessness, resilience— _love_ , he recognized. As long as Dean was there, he could go on. As if sensing Castiel’s thoughts, Dean tipped up his chin and placed a kiss at the corner of his lips, just enough of a promise to remember. A promise he would never forget. “It’s safe,” Castiel murmured, eyes half lidded. “Dean’s a good man.”

Hannah sighed. “But what if Zachariah comes for us again? You know he won’t let us go so easily.”

Dean let out a chuckle and leaned his forehead against Castiel’s, letting their breaths mingle in the scant space between them. “I’ll keep you safe,” Dean stated, a declaration.

With a mending sigh, Castiel let relief wash over him and embraced Dean with his jagged wing, phantom feathers aching to touch more of him, draw him closer. “We’ll be okay,” Castiel murmured, and let Dean kiss him again, soft, barely there before he pulled back, a new emotion in their eyes— _hope_.

**Author's Note:**

> Wahoo! I've never written Victorian fiction before, so this was a fun way to try to emulate all of those books I had to read in my vic lit class a few semesters ago. [Diminuel's](http://diminuel.tumblr.com/) been a great pleasure to work with, and her art is lovely, and it's been a great experience all around writing this for the SPN RB! I kinda deviated from the original plot, but it's good either way! Also, thanks to [Museaway](http://www.museaway.com) for betaing and Diminuel again for offering insights into how to reorganize some scenes!
> 
> I really like wings, did I ever tell you that. Because I do.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twtter.com/loversantiquity).


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